


that prayed to feel the flame

by the_ragnarok



Series: (and harold) [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: (well more like using yellow), Come Eating, Comeplay, D/s, F/M, Face Slapping, Femdom, Friends With Benefits, Human Furniture, Penis In Vagina Sex, Safeword Use, Sex Toys, Shaving, Situational Humiliation, Under-negotiated Kink, Unsafe Sex, Verbal Humiliation, mid-scene kink negotiation, threat of castration, toxic masculinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 15:59:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6476659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Men are so bad at negotiating boundaries, Zoe honestly wonders why she still bothers with them. (Sometimes they make it worth her while.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	that prayed to feel the flame

**Author's Note:**

> My enormous thanks to violentdaylight and Code16 for being inspirations <3333

There are times in Zoe's life that she honestly wonders why she still plays with men. The inability to communicate is simply exhausting.

True, there are many appealing things about them. And, as specimen go, John Reese is a fine one: genuinely submissive _and_ respectful. Not one to argue that Zoe should put on the high stiletto heels and leather corset when she's in a sundress and sandals mood.

The problem is when John lets things go too far in the other direction.

Normally, guys who tell Zoe, "Everything," are immediately banned once she's explained to them what a stupid thing that is to say. The one before John left pale and stammering after Zoe inquired if _Everything_ included sending his wife pictures of him in a bra and silk panties. A shame, in Zoe's opinion: they looked damned good on him, and keeping that kind of thing from significant others never ended well. She should know.

With John, however, Zoe has to resort to the threat of semen ice cubes, to which John responds with a slightly baffled, "Sure," and goes halfway to the kitchen to get her the ice tray before she stops him.

She gives up on more explicit communication then and tells John to pretend he's a footstool. He makes a very nice one. Padded, firm, not too bony: he even adjusts his position to keep her feet a comfortable height, a touch Zoe appreciates.

After half an hour comfortably catching up on Netflix, Zoe feels more charitable. She pats John's ass. "Spread 'em and lift, champ." She lingers, giving him an appreciative look. Damn. Maybe there's a reason she keeps having sex with men after all.

She grips his balls. "What if I want to cut those off?"

That, gratifyingly, makes John suck in a breath. But then all he says is, "Wire or a blade? You'd want something to catch the blood if it's the latter."

"Get on your feet." She leads him to the bathroom by yanking on his balls. She wonders if he's bluffing or if he really thinks she will, if he trusts in his ability to subdue her if she pulls a knife on him or if he really is so far gone he'd let her do that.

God, she loves that edge of possibility. Loves even more the way John is pliant, obedient, like he would honestly love anything she did to him, up to and including castration.

She gets a razor out - one of the pink ones she uses to shave her own legs - and lathers up his balls, carefully getting all the hair off. She nicks him twice, once by accident, the second time because she likes the hitch in his breath.

Then Zoe washes him clean, tells him to wait and not look, and goes to the kitchen for a long handled spoon, watches John remain passive as she carefully runs the edge of its handle against the base of his balls. "You really would let me," she says, hushed. "Wouldn't you?"

John trembles as he chokes out, "Yes."

She laughs at that, throaty and deep. "What on Earth would I do with your testicles? Get up. Show me a reason to keep this," she rests a hand on his hard cock, "around."

He holds her up against the shower wall, fucks her hard and fast, fantastic. Zoe rubs her own clit, laughs when John begs to do it for her. "You can come in me," she says, generous, "and then lick it out."

John takes that as a command, groaning and pulsing in her. He's back on his knees as soon as he's gently lowered her to the floor. She holds herself open to let him lap her clean, and then suck on her clit until she comes.

She grabs his hair. His eyes are dazed. "Are you mine?"

"If you want me." His voice is very hoarse.

Zoe slaps him. "None of that. _Are_ you?"

He swallows. "Yes." She slaps him again, and he says, "I'm yours."

"Mm. Nothing but a tool for me."

When he repeats after her that time, there's color in his cheeks, and he licks his lips, staring at her like she's the center of the universe.

"Say you're worthless."

There's one still moment, barely long enough to note. Then John says, voice quieter than before, "I'm worthless."

Well. Zoe's not sure what just happened, only that it hit him. She pulls him close and says, "Having troubles with that?"

John relaxes a little bit. Then he tells her, "No, I know I'm worthless," with a tiny smile on his lips, like he's sharing a private joke.

Suddenly, Zoe is very concerned. "Yellow," she says. "John, not playing now. Do you think you're worthless?"

John's posture is too good to hunch, but he looks like he wants to. "That's a pretty personal question, Zoe, don't you think?"

Zoe can convey "I just shaved your balls and you let me" with a raised eyebrow, and she does that. "I need an answer, and an honest one, or I'm ending this right now."

"You're not here as my therapist." There's a hint of anger in John's voice now. Good. That means he's paying attention.

"I'm really not," Zoe agrees. "Which means you're not paying me to waste my time with your macho bullshit. I'm not going to drop everything and make you tell me about your mother, John, I just want to know if you're still having fun."

John breathes out raggedly, and takes a moment. Then he says, "I might have more fun if there was less discussion of self-worth."

"Thank you," Zoe says, and it's genuine. She pulls him closer by his leash. "Now say again that you're mine."

"Yours," John breathes out, going beautifully limp. He's really very enjoyable. Even more so when she fingers him until he shakes, then shoves her Hitachi magic wand into him - condomed, of course - and turns on the intensity until he cries.

She sits next to him afterwards, carding her fingers through his short, soft hair. "I could direct you to a therapist," she tells him. "I know some very good, discreet ones."

John barks a laughter. It's not as ugly as she might have expected. When he says, "For a fee?" he sounds downright fond.

Zoe sighs. Then she says, "No, John. For a friend."

"I'm touched." His voice is light, but his head dips forward ever so slightly.

She leaves Dr. Wright's card on the nightdresser when she gets up. It's still there after John's gone. She's not as surprised as she should be, however, when she gets a call the following day.

"I hear that you know a therapist," Harold says. "A very good, discreet one."

"I might." Zoe plays with a curl, and smiles. "For a fee."

There is something guarded in Harold's tone. "Is that so?"

"Yes." No point dragging it out further. "I have a very good friend who could use her services, but he wouldn't listen to me when I told him to go."

"You have my word, Ms. Morgan," Harold says, with a tone of finality and perhaps a touch of relief. "He'll go." He pauses. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Zoe hangs up unceremoniously. She really hopes Harold takes her literally: he probably knows more about her sex life that she'd care to think about.

Ah, well. Not like it matters who knows: who the hell would be dumb enough to blackmail _her_?


End file.
